


Synchronicity

by luminality



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Egghead being HARDCORE TO THE MEGA!, Gen, Mistaken Identity, Noid being Noid, Post-Canon, Smoker being mysterious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:49:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28048761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminality/pseuds/luminality
Summary: synchronicity (noun) - the feeling of being in sync with another person; meaningful coincidences that are not causally related to each otherNoid bumps into a mysterious stranger. Suspicions arise. Cigarettes are smoked. Sines are (eventually) synced.[written for SundayLion, Disco Elysium Secret Santa 2020]
Relationships: Noid & Smoker
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	1. Smoke and Sines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SundayLion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SundayLion/gifts).



April wafts into Martinaise like smoke from a freshly lit cigarette. Everything thaws in its wake: The sea ice groans, weeps, and dies. Rivulets of water trickle down branches, roofs, and lampposts. People emerge from their homes and greet each other like long-lost friends.

Meanwhile, in the cavernous ceiling of an old Dolorian church, a two-millimeter-wide hole in reality devours another crumb of space-time and grows by 0.0000001 mm.

Voices echo through the church. Roused from silent communion, a shadow detaches itself from the sea of darkness that covers the ceiling and scuttles, crab-like, down the rafters until it comes to rest on the massive beam that traverses the church like a wooden spine. From here, Tiago can see everything below—the thin, pale woman worshipping at her altar of numbers; the gleaming basins of water; the four children huddled around a small object on the floor…

Curious, he sits on his haunches and makes himself comfortable. 

Fifteen feet below Tiago’s perch, Noid solemnly looks around their little circle.

“All set?” 

Andre gives him a thumbs up. Acele shrugs. Egghead pumps his fist in the air and yells, “BORN ready, man!!!” 

Noid nods.

Then, he reaches out, touches the hammer, and sets it spinning.

It’s a fantastic spin. A cool-infused union of torque and centrifugal force. The hammer spins faster than a record, faster than a breakdancer on speed, faster than the wheels of a TipTop racer. Six pairs of eyes (four on the ground, one on the rafters, and one glancing away from a radiocomputer screen every now and then) track it with varying levels of anxiety, amusement, and disinterest. No one speaks. Not even Egghead, who’s staring at the hammer as if it were his favorite Arno van Eyck record. 

At last, tempered by the tyrannical laws of physics, the hammer slows down. It swivels towards Acele—

“No no no no no,” she pleads.

 _Yes yes yes yes yes_ , everyone else thinks.

—inches towards Egghead—

“Shit shit shit shit shit,” he whispers.

 _Shit shit shit shit shit_ , everyone else thinks.

—and comes to a stop.

Six pairs of eyes look at the hammer.

Then, five of them look up and stare at Noid.

"Shit," he mutters.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Noid's standing on the front steps of the church, an empty Frittte bag dangling from his wrist like a deflated balloon. The wind stinks of fish. The planks creak beneath him. The look on his face is that of a prisoner condemned to exile. 

A bad-sine day, he thinks darkly as he trudges down the stairs. He’s felt it all morning—a low, heavy vibe that set his teeth on edge and made his spinal cord thrum. Sure, it could have just been those sick trap beats that Andre and Egghead were playing all morning. But it’s never failed him, his spinal cord. Unlike that fucking hammer of his.

He’ll throw it out and get a new hammer, he decides. One that wouldn’t betray him the next time they play grocery-run roulette. 

As he walks towards the waterlock bridge, Noid plucks a record from his memories and pops it into the turntable in his brain. A song starts to play in his head. A low, bass beat that he heard in the Paliseum, back when he and his crew were still punk-ass kids stuck in Faubourg. Germaine’s played it once in the church, but it sounded...different, somehow. Deeper. More primal. As if the song had been distilled into its purest essence and shot through the atrophied veins of the universe.

Ever since then, it’s been buried in his soul like a second heartbeat—one that’s louder and truer than his own.

Bobbing his head to the music, he drifts past the patch of open sea where a little tent used to stand, past an ancient washerwoman hunched over a basin of laundry, past the half-sunken corpse of a motor carriage, past the Samaran hawker with his pirated relief packets, past the bullet-sprayed walls of the Whirling-in-Rags... 

He arrives at his destination soon enough. The bright-yellow Frittte sign beckons to him, promising a future filled with sugar, caffeine, and—if he has enough cash to spare—a bottle of nosaphed or two. But Noid is immune to its tricks. He's the only one in their crew (aside from Acele) who actually buys real food. Andre buys potato chips and candy; Egghead buys energy drinks (and _only_ energy drinks); and Soona and Tiago eat data and darkness, respectively. 

One day, humanity will transcend the pig-wheat paradigm and subsist on truth alone. And when that happens, Noid and his tribe will be—

The door to the Frittte swings open, and someone bumps into him.

"Oh. Pardon me, cher," a honeyed voice says, and Noid glances up to see an open shirt, high cheekbones, and a pair of feline eyes scanning him from head to toe... 

His spinal cord thrums.

But before he can read this guy's sines, the man saunters away, leaving behind the faint scent of cigarettes and...sandalwood?

A switch flips in Noid's brain, triggering a series of chemical reactions that shoots a gutpunch of ultra-pure, lab-grade H2-OH-SHIT into his bloodstream.

His hand dives into his pocket. His fingers brush against his wallet. He sags against the door, relieved. 

Fucking close. He was lucky that guy wasn't a crook, or else he'd have to explain to his crew why they'd be eating fish this month. _And_ do all the fishing too. 

Willing his sigma-functions to return to normal, Noid enters the Frittte and proceeds to shop like a general executing prisoners of war. He glares at the items lined on the shelves, daring them to escape. Then, when he spots something suitable for human consumption, he plucks it from its brethren, plops it into his bag, and subjects the next shelf to the same ordeal.

The clerk silently tracks his progress. She blows a raspberry-pink bubble. It pops.

"We're out of nosaphed," she drones when Noid deposits his haul in front of her.

Noid glances at the medicine cabinet. It is, indeed, empty of nosaphed.

"Don't care." He pulls out his wallet and pretends to subscribe to the moralist-capitalist system for the two whole minutes it takes for the clerk to compute his bill, count his cash, and give him his change.

"Come again." The clerk says pops another bubble. Her sines are dead. "Have a Frittte day."

Noid heads back with a plastic bag encumbered with food and a wallet liberated from cash. A flock of seagulls trace lazy circles in the sky. If he squints, he can just make out the tiny cameras mounted on their backs...

A seagull lands on the roof of Roy’s pawnshop. Noid glares at it.

_I’m onto you, you little snitch._

The seagull shuffles across the roof so that its masters can have a better look at him.

He’s making his way through the fishing village when something catches his eye. A flash of purple, down by the swings...

Noid’s sigma functions go haywire.

It’s him. The guy from Frittte. The one who bumped into him and didn’t steal his wallet. He’s seated on one of the swings, staring out at the sea with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. And for some reason, his shirt’s still open.

Noid’s never seen this guy around here before. Then again, he doesn’t exactly go out for a seaside walk everyday, so who knows? Maybe the smoker hangs out at the swings all the time. Nothing to be ‘noid about.

Yeah, he thinks, his spinal cord vibrating within its sheath of bone. Nothing to be ‘noid about.

Slowly, so as not to attract the smoker’s attention, Noid steps back and takes the long way around the village.

He doesn’t see the feline eyes that track his retreat, or the smoke that wafts up from a freshly lit cigarette. 

* * *

When Noid looks at the world, the first thing he sees is not people, but patterns.

He learned not to trust people early on. People lie to children all the time. Some of those children see through the lies; some do not. Noid didn’t at first; then he did. And from then on, he promised that he would never fall for another lie ever again.

That’s when he started noticing patterns. Because patterns, unlike people, do not lie. 

Take the sine, for example. A wave whose height is bounded by ones and whose length stretches out into infinity. A wave so simple that it can be drawn by any child. When Noid first saw it in the ratty textbook that he shared with ten other children (this was before he saw through the moralistic agenda of the Revacholian public school system), he didn’t think much of the sine. It was a squiggle on a disintegrating page. Nothing more.

Then his eyes were opened, and he started seeing sines everywhere. He saw it in music and in art (for what are sound and color but waves transmitted by objects to our feeble senses?), in history and politics (the rise and fall of nations, empires, ideologies, revolutions), in every pulse of his heart, every impulse of his nerves, every breath of his lungs...

Rise, and fall. Rise, and fall.

* * *

Noid’s bad sine-day turns into a bad sine-week. He hits his thumb with a hammer. He stubs his toe on his toolbox. His screwdriver says, “No! Screw _you_!” and hurls itself into a crevice between the planks. And when they play grocery-run roulette again—

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” he says, staring at the hammer that’s pointing straight at him.

Andre slaps him on the back. “It’s okay, man! A little walk around the neighborhood’s never hurt anyone. Right, guys?”

“I heard dogs howling out there last night,” Acele says. She shrugs. “But they probably won’t be active during the day.”

Egghead’s face lights up. “Hey, Noid! I can go if you don’t wanna---“

“NO!” Everyone yells.

After throwing his traitorous hammer into the ocean, Noid heads to Frittte, combs through the shelves (they have nosaphed now; he grabs three bottles), and makes his way back. Four seagulls, their black, beady eyes shining like sniper scopes, watch him from the roof of the pawnshop. He flips them off.

Now, Noid doesn’t believe in god. All religion is false-core. Lifeless idols set up by the left-right complex to keep the populace enslaved in ignorance. 

But when he walks into the fishing village and sees the smoker on the swings again, Noid is tempted to believe, for the briefest moment, in the existence of an evil, nameless deity who revels in human suffering.

Just like last time, the smoker’s staring out at the ocean. He’s smoking a cigarette. His shirt’s still open. He’s looking straight at Noid.

A hush falls over the world. Even the seagulls shut up.

Most cellular-based organisms would have succumbed to their fight-or-flight instincts. But since Noid has transcended the material plane through the power of anodic dance music and exposure to several kinds of drugs, his nervous system merely takes advantage of the silence and attempts to read the guy’s sines.

In the meantime, he slouches his shoulders, shoves his free hand into his pocket, and meets the smoker’s gaze head-on.

Two seconds later, his spinal pings and zaps a message to his cerebral cortex. 

SPY SINES, the message reads.

The smoker’s eyes crinkle.

Then, he lifts a hand and waves at Noid.

Another ping. 

GET OUT OF HERE STUPID.

Without breaking eye contact, Noid nods once. Slowly.

_I’m not afraid of you._

The smoker smiles.

After shooting one last glare over his shoulder, Noid walks away, knowing—with the certainty of the hunted—that he’s being watched.

* * *

A week passes. Noid gets a new hammer—one that’s hefty, reliable, and immediately proves its loyalty to him by picking Andre for the next grocery run. 

“It’s okay, man.” He pats Andre on the back, smirking. “A little walk around the neighborhood never hurt anyone.”

“Aw, fuck you,” Andre retorts with a grin. “I’ll be back in a flash. Any requests?”

“Energy drinks!” Egghead says. “The chica-cherry cola ones! Those are _hardcore_.” 

Everyone takes a moment to remember what happened the last time Germaine drank a bottle of chica-cherry-cola-flavored Ogre(™) Energy Drink.

Andre drapes an arm around Egg’s shoulder. “Tell you what, buddy. I’ll get us some—”

He glances at Acele. “Apple juice,” she mouths silently at him.

“—apple juice,” he continues. “I heard that stuff keeps you awake for hours!”

“Okay! Apple juice is hardcore too!”

Thirty minutes later, Noid’s nailing down a plank on the eastern side of the church when the door bursts open, letting in a blast of cool, spring air and a grinning Andre who’s carrying not one, but _two_ bags of goodies.

“Got us some grub, guys!” He raises the bags in the air. “Come get ‘em!”

Everyone drops what they’re doing and runs towards him with that astonishing speed possessed by growing, adolescent bodies who, despite their assertions to the contrary, cannot survive on anodic dance music and nosaphed alone. 

In a rare act of communion with her fellow organic lifeforms, Soona steps away from her radiocomputer and joins them. Egghead hands her a turkey sandwich. Acele tosses an apple up to the ceiling. The apple doesn’t fall back down.

Meanwhile, Noid takes a bag of potato chips from Andre and studies its ingredients.

“Hey, Andre," he says, "Did you see anyone on the swings in the village?” 

“The swings?” Andre scratches his head. “Don’t think so. Why? What’s up?”

Noid shrugs and rips the bag open. 

“Nothing.” The ghost of an unseen smile dances across his nape. “Forget I asked.”

* * *

One day, Noid perceives a new pattern. A _gamma-frequency_ pattern. One that makes his sines jump and interferes with his sigma functions like a jammer buried in his skull.

The pattern is this: Whenever Andre, Acele, or Egghead goes out for a grocery run, they never see anyone on the swings. 

But when Noid does, the smoker is always, _always_ there.

He brushes it off at first. Wouldn’t be the first time he saw a pattern that wasn’t there. But then the data piles up: Andre goes again; no smoker. Acele goes, still no smoker. Egghead goes (after promising everyone that he’d buy actual food this time), and OH MY GOD, he _definitely_ saw someone on the swings! A little kid with a lamb doll!!!!

Then Noid goes on a grocery run, boom! Smoker. Right there by the swings. Staring out at the ocean and smoking a cigarette like he's been there all month.

Oh, and his shirt was still open. Noid feels like that’s an important detail, somehow.

As Noid holds this pattern up to the cold, penetrating light of his mind, he sees two possibilities. First, he’s just being—well, a ‘noid, and the smoker is not, in fact, a spy sent by the left-right complex to monitor the movements of a suspicious element. His presence at the swings whenever Noid passes by? Mere coincidence. A set of scattered points that just happen to form a line.

Second: He's still being a ‘noid. Only this time, he’s _correct_ , and the smoker _is_ a spy. 

He's not sure which one he prefers. To be wrong, but safe; or to be right, but in danger.

But his preference is inconsequential. The only thing that matters is the truth. 

And so, as he nails, screws, and drills the church back together one plank at a time, Noid bobs his head to a hidden beat and comes up with a plan. 

* * *

“You what?” Andre says.

“I volunteer,” Noid replies. He throws the hammer into the air and catches it easily. “I wanna clear my head. Sines have been off lately.” 

Acele frowns at him. “You sure, Noid? We could always just let the hammer decide—”

“I’m sure. Unless any of you really, really, _really_ want to do it."

Just as he expected, nobody speaks up. Before they can change their minds, Noid takes the Frittte bag from Andre, heads out the door, and executes his plan. 

He passes by the swings—They're empty. So far so good.

When he gets to Frittte, he raids the shelves, grabs two bottles of nosaphed, and marches to the counter.

“Gimme a pack of Astras,” he tells the clerk, who’s filing her nails while chewing bubblegum.

She checks her cuticles. “We don’t sell cigarettes to minors.”

Noid smirks. 

“Who are you calling a minor, kid?” He slaps his slightly-edited identification papers onto the counter. “Astras. _Now_."

Five minutes later, Noid marches out of the Frittte, groceries in hand and a pack of Astras tucked into his pocket like a wildcard. His hands are clammy. His sigma functions are off the charts. He zips through the waterlock, the coast, the fishing village, and when he gets to the swings--

No one’s there.

Noid stares. 

Then, he looks around, half-expecting to see a flash of purple by the waterlock, between the houses, behind the trees---

Nothing. Not even a puff of smoke. 

A breeze blows in from the sea. The swings creak, burdened by the weight of absence. Above him, a seagull cackles. 

Noid casts one last look at the swings.

Then, with an unopened pack of disappointment thrumming in his pocket, he turns around and takes the long way back to the church.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ME (before this fic): I don't understand why people like the nightclub kids and Smoker  
> ME (after this fic): Oh my god I totally understand now
> 
> Next Chapter: Egghead goes out for a grocery run. Noid goes out for a walk.
> 
> Shout-out to [Lepak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lepak/pseuds/Lepak) for beta-reading! Make sure to check out her work!


	2. The Spy by the Sea

On a bright, crisp Sunday morning, Andre stands on the raised platform beneath the shattered image of Dolores Dei and glowers at his acolyte. 

“Alright, Egg. Let’s hear it!”

“I’m gonna go to Frittte!!!” Egghead hollers.

“And what are you gonna do there?”

“I’m gonna buy food!!!”

“What kind of food?” Acele asks, standing to Andre’s right while Noid stands to his left, pale and silent as a ghost.

“Sandwiches, potato chips, and those cup-noodle things that Soona likes!!!”

From the corner of his eye, Andre sees Soona nod with approval. 

He gives Egg a thumbs-up. “That’s right! What about the crab man, what’re you gonna get him?”

“Apples and fizzy candy!”

“Appreciate it, homes,” a voice drawls from the ceiling.

“Will you buy water?” Acele asks. 

“YES!”

“What about nosaphed?” Andre follows up.

“YES!”

“Mayonnaise?”

“NO!”

“Macaroni salad?”

“NO!”

“Those plastic rings that have those giant candy gems on them?” 

Egghead throws his arms into the air like he just don’t care. “YES!!!”

Andre and Acele relax. Behind them, the luminous figure of Dolores Dei raises a hand in benediction. 

“Energy drinks?”

“YES!”

“NO!” They shout.

“NO!” Egghead shouts, as if that was his answer all along.

Andre sighs. This is as good as it was gonna get.

“Okay, Germaine.” He stands up to his full height—which isn’t very intimidating, even with the added inches from his hair. “You’re _ready._ ”

Egghead’s eyes burn with determination.

With the undisputed authority of the king of cool, Andre stretches out his left hand and snaps his fingers. “Noid! The wallet!” 

Nothing happens.

Andre glances to his left.

“Noid!” Snap! Snap! “The wallet!”

“Hm?” Noid whips his head up. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

He takes out the wallet, tosses it to Andre, and goes back to contemplating the floor. 

Andre frowns. He glances at Acele and Egghead. They look just as worried as he is.

“Anyway,” Andre strides forward and bestows the wallet unto Egghead. “It’s all yours, man. We’re counting on you!!!”

Egghead looks at the sacred object in his hands, then at Andre. 

He starts to tremble. 

Acele frowns. “Uh, Egg—” 

Suddenly, Egghead throws back his head and goes, “AAAAAIIIIIIIGHHHH!!!!!” 

Then, he runs to the door, heaves it open, and bolts off, screaming like a lone berserker who’s about to raid the village of Frittte.

Everyone stares after him.

“He’s going to buy energy drinks,” Acele states, still staring at the open door.

Andre nods. “Yep.”

They swap glances.

Then they look at Noid, whose silent communion with the floorboards was somehow unperturbed by Egghead’s epic departure. 

Acele pokes Andre’s shoulder. _Talk to him, you idiot_.

Andre grimaces. _Why me???_

But Acele just crosses her arms and gives him the look that women have used throughout the centuries to cower their men into submission.

Andre sighs. _Fine._

He plasters a smile on his face and sidles up to Noid. “Hey, buddy. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he fully expects Noid to say. Which is fair, since that’s how most people would have answered that question. 

So when Noid sighs and says, “No,” Andre’s brain charges straight on ahead and makes him go, “Are you sure? You don’t look okay.”

As they exchange matching looks of confusion, Acele raises her eyes to Dolores Dei and wonders why boys are so stupid.

Nape prickling from the unmistakable sensation of feminine displeasure, Andre tries to redeem himself. “Something bothering you?” he asks Noid. “You know you can talk to us about anything, right?” 

A battle plays out behind Noid’s eyes, and Andre finds himself wishing, not for the first time, that his friend would trust them more. 

Noid opens his mouth…

And shuts it. 

"It's nothing," he mutters. "Just a bad sine-day."

He trudges down the platform, eyes downcast, ribcage of suspenders hanging limply around his frame. 

"Bad sine-day," Andre mutters when Noid’s out of earshot. "You buy that shit, 'Cel?" 

Acele shakes her head. "He's been acting weird since last Tuesday. After he volunteered to go to Frittte, remember?"

"Yeah…" A jolt of fear zaps through Andre. "Think something happened to him out there?" 

"Who knows? Maybe it has something to do with the guy at the swings he keeps asking us about." 

"But babe, no one's ever _seen_ that guy! Not you, not me, not Egg---"

"Noid has!” She pauses, then frowns. "Or at least, he _thinks_ he has."

They fall silent. Meanwhile, armed with a brush and a can of varnish, Noid plods towards a nearby creepy pillar-statue and gets to work. 

Andre's face lights up. “I know! We should have a rave tonight! That oughta cheer him up!”

Acele looks at Noid again. 

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes dark with worry. “That’s a good idea.”

* * *

Egghead returns from his death-defying quest ten minutes later, thereby setting the unofficial world record for the Fastest Frittte Run Ever Done by a Person Who’s Not on Drugs. 

He bursts through the door. “NOID! HE’S THERE!!!!”

Andre and Acele exchange glances from across the church. Brush paused midway on a statue’s bare chest, Noid scowls at Egghead.

“The fuck you talking about, Egg?” he asks. 

“THE GUY AT THE SWINGS! HE’S THERE! I THOUGHT YOU MADE HIM UP, BUT THEN I SAW HIM AND—”

“Woah, woah, woah, calm down, Germaine!” Andre rushes over to Egghead and takes the overstuffed grocery bag from him before he accidentally shotputs it through the roof. Peeking into the bag, Andre sees several sandwiches (good), two bottles of nosaphed ( _very_ good), and a 1-liter bottle of chica-cherry-flavored Ogre™ Energy Drink (holy shit they’re _screwed_ ).

He sighs and puts the bag down. “You said you saw someone at the swings?”

“Yeah! A guy. He was smoking, and he...he…”

Egghead’s eyes glisten with fear, and Andre becomes very aware of the silence coming from Noid’s direction. 

“He was like. Wearing an OPEN SHIRT!” Egg yells, visibly distressed. “It’s _freezing_ out there, man!!! What if he gets a cold????”

Everyone ponders these words of wisdom for a few seconds.

Then, Andre hears something being carefully set down on the floor. 

“I’m going out,” Noid declares to no one in particular. “For a walk,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Hey, ‘Dre,” Egghead whispers as Noid walks past them. “I don’t think he’s going out for just a walk.”

“Me neither, buddy,” Andre answers. The door slams shut. “Me neither.”

* * *

To Noid’s credit, he really does go for a walk. A brisk walk straight to the swings, to be specific. But Egghead was right—the weather really _is_ freezing, as if February had snuck up on April and hit it over the head with a lead pipe. Shoulders hunched against the biting wind, he palms the unopened pack of cigarettes in his pocket, and reviews his plan.

Step One: Open the pack of cigarettes. Get a stick. 

Step Two: Walk up to the smoker. Ask for a light.

Step Three: Sit on the swings. Smoke for exactly ten seconds.

Step Four: Turn to the smoker and ask, “Who sent you, you fucking spy?”

Now, Noid is fully aware that the smoker might pull a gun on him at that point. Does he have a plan for that? No. But death comes for everyone. So he might as well die vindicated.

His breath mists in front of him like smoke. He walks faster, terrified that his prey will flee before he gets to the swings. He rushes past the boardwalk, the FELD building, the bridge, and when he gets to the swings—

He’s there.

Noid grins. 

_Got you._

He ducks behind a crumbling shack to execute Step One. His hands tremble as he opens the pack of Astras. He tells himself it’s because of the cold. 

Once he has a cigarette, he does a quick sine-check on himself. Low bass beats, he notes with approval. Slow. Steady. _Ready_. 

He peeks around the corner. The smoker’s shirt today is a deep pyrholidon-violet. It flutters in the wind, baring his torso and offering exactly zero protection against the chill. 

Egg was right again. This guy’s _definitely_ going to get a cold. 

Noid steps back. He takes a deep breath. Lets it out slowly.

Then he turns the corner and proceeds with Step Two.

Either the smoker pretends not to see him coming, or he’s really, _really_ engrossed with the ocean, because he doesn’t notice Noid until they’re practically next to each other. 

A bead of sweat trails down Noid’s nape. The scents of sandalwood and tobacco tickle his senses. He opens his mouth to ask for a light—

Then those feline eyes land on him. And he immediately forgets his line.

This doesn’t usually happen. Noid may be paranoid, but he doesn’t panic. Panic debilitates. It obliterates caution and extinguishes vigilance. It is, in other words, contrary to Noid’s very nature.

But as he stands there, pinned in place by those amber eyes, Noid realizes that there is a difference between preparing to hunt a tiger, and being confronted by the tiger itself. After all, you can prepare for as long as you want. But it won’t stop you from getting eaten.

The tiger tilts his head. Smoke rises from his mouth.

“Can I help you, cher?”

That voice, silky-smooth and lilted with curiosity, flows through Noid’s auditory system and snaps him out of his trance. 

“A light,” he stammers, flashing his unlit cigarette in front of him like a protective ward. “I need a light.”

The smoker’s eyes flit to Noid’s cigarette. Then, in a repeat performance from their first encounter, they sweep over him from head to toe. 

Noid wills himself not to fidget. His skin tingles in the wake of the stranger’s gaze. 

Finally, after the longest five seconds of Noid’s life, the smoker looks away from him and retrieves a lighter from his pocket. It’s a beautiful thing—A small, elegant rectangle of black and chrome. The moment Noid sees it, he knows, with absolute certainty, that it’s the single most expensive thing within their one-kilometer radius.

The smoker offers the lighter to him, eyes glinting with faint amusement. Noid plucks it from his hand. Their fingers do not brush. 

Then, fully aware of the smoker’s gaze on him, he puts the cigarette between his lips, flicks the lighter, and lights up. 

Noid hasn’t smoked in months. But as the nicotine blesses his bloodstream and exorcises his fear, he wonders why he ever stopped. 

Courage renewed, he passes the lighter back to the smoker and nods at the empty swing. “Do you mind?”

Without waiting for an answer, Noid settles into the swing seat, which creaks in alarm, but thankfully fails to deposit him ass-first into the sand. 

They smoke silently for a while, rocking their swings and casting sidelong glances at each other every now and then. Above them, the sun is a pale disk in a sea of blue, surrounded by a congregation of clouds in hushed worship. Pinpricks of light dance on the surface of the sea, glimmering like a thousand stars.

 _A good day to die_ , Noid thinks.

But before he can proceed with Step Four, the smoker speaks up.

“Excuse me, cher. But can I ask you a strange question?”

Noid glances at the smoker’s face, but all he sees is patient curiosity.

He shrugs. “Let’s have it.”

The smoker gives him a grateful nod and asks, “Would your name happen to be Noid, by any chance?”

Noid freezes.

SPY SINES, his spinal cord blares, vindicated.

“Even if it was,” he says slowly, “why would I tell you?”

The smoker smiles. “A wise answer. I wouldn’t answer a question like that coming from a complete stranger too.” After taking a leisurely drag from his cigarette, he extends his hand to Noid. “I’m Martin.”

 _Bullshit_ , Noid thinks, glaring at the proffered hand as if it were a ticking time bomb.

“Don’t worry, cher.” The smoker’s eyes sparkle behind a veil of smoke. “I don’t bite.”

That doesn’t reassure Noid at all. But he takes the smoker’s hand anyway. Because spy or not, it’s _totally_ uncool to leave a guy hanging.

“Noid,” he says. The smoker’s hand is soft and strangely warm. “But you knew that already.”

Martin smiles and shakes Noid’s hand. “There. Now we’re not strangers anymore.”

Warmth suffuses Noid’s face. He retrieves his hand and glares at the ocean. 

“How’d you know my name?” 

Martin rocks back and forth on his swing. “Because I’m a spy, of course,” he says lightly.

“I knew it!!!” Noid could have shouted, leaping from his seat and pointing an accusatory finger at the damn spy. “What do you want from me, bastard???”

But since he's mastered the art of cool, he simply nods and goes, “Of course you are. And I’m a suspicious element who despises our humanist-moralist masters.”

“Indeed. We are mortal enemies, you and I.” Martin points a finger at the flock of seagulls wheeling above them. “The seagulls are my accomplices. They spy on the populace with the tiny cameras that are strapped on their backs.”

Noid looks up at the seagulls. They admit their collusion with Martin the Spy with enthusiastic caws.

“Never trusted them,” he says. “But they are noisy. For spies, I mean.”

“They are. But alas,” Martin sighs. “They’re the only ones we could afford. The pelicans demanded a daily supply of sardines. The sparrows wanted fresh worms every morning. But seagulls? Seagulls are willing to work for trash.”

Noid pauses.

Then he sees the laughter in Martin’s eyes and knows that he’s been played.

He takes a long, slow drag of his cigarette, exhales a plume of smoke, and says, “Fuck you.”

Martin grins. “I’m sorry, cher,” he says, without a hint of repentance. “It’s a bad habit of mine. One of several that I happen to possess.” He taps ash off his cigarette. “But to set the record straight: No, I’m not a spy. The seagulls aren’t either. At least as far as I can tell.”

As Martin looks up to contemplate the trustworthiness of seagulls, Noid discreetly checks his sines. 

TRUTH, his spinal cord declares.

But since this contradicts his previous sine reading, Noid discards this message and starts asking questions.

“If you’re not a spy, then how did you know my name?” 

“Ah. Funny story, cher,” Martin crosses his legs. “”Another boy passed by here earlier. Blonde. Probably around—” he scans Noid again, “—your age.”

Noid plucks his cigarette from his mouth, flicks off the ash, and makes a note to himself to strangle Egghead with his bare hands later. 

“It seems that he wasn’t expecting to see me,” Martin continues, “because the moment he did, he ran away, shouting ‘OH MY GOD, NOOOOOOID!’” 

No, strangulation would be too kind, Noid decides. Smashing Egghead’s turntable with his hammer would be a more just sentence.

“Then you appeared minutes later,” Martin concludes. “I made an educated guess. It turned out to be correct. And here we are.”

His posture is relaxed. His face is innocent. Noid still doesn’t trust him one bit.

“I see. My...colleague,” Noid says, “has never been good at discretion.”

“Yes. Much like the seagulls, I suspect.” Martin glances at his former accomplices.

Noid ponders his next move. 

“Can I ask you something else?” he asks.

Martin shrugs. “Go ahead. Though I may have to leave after this cigarette. I have another appointment today.”

Something in the way he says “appointment” piques Noid’s interest. He files it away in the esoteric library of his mind.

  
  


“What are you doing here at the swings?” _If you’re not spying on me_ , he refrains from adding.

Martin gestures towards the ocean. “I’m here for this,” he says. “The sea is beautiful this time of year. I was hoping it would inspire me.”

Noid’s ears perk up. “You’re an artist?”

“Nothing of the sort," Martin demurs. "I merely appreciate beauty when I see it. Sometimes, I try to capture it on canvas.” He gives Noid a wry smile. “Very rarely, I succeed.”

Noid takes in this information like a zoologist who just found out that the bird he was tracking is not, in fact, a pelican, but an eight-eyed teratorn.

  
  


“Which school do you subscribe to?” he asks, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “A word of warning. I believe cubism to be the work of champagne-socialists who can’t tell the difference between a Braque and a banana peel.”

Martin raises an eyebrow and says, “There’s a difference?” which catches Noid so off-guard that he actually cracks a smile. “But to answer your question, I admire the Impressionists. Though I’m partial to the Suresne school, because they—pardon the phrase—didn’t seem like they had their heads up their asses as they toiled over their paintings.”

Noid smirks. “Interesting. I always thought Sazille had his head up his rectum, at least.”

“He’s the exception.” Martin gives him another assessing look, an appreciative one this time. “Are you an artist too?”

Noid shrugs. “I dabbled in it before. But I prefer heavier materials. Like wood, for example. Or anodic music.”

Martin tilts his head, and Noid realizes that it’s been a while since anyone has looked at him with such interest. It is not an unpleasant feeling.

“I’ve never heard about anodic dance music before." Smoke wreathes Martin's head like a halo. “How is it different from regular dance music?”

Noid gestures with his cigarette towards the horizon. “How is the sky different from the sea? How is the soul different from the body? The difference can’t be explained." He pauses for effect. "It must be _experienced."_

Martin's eyes gleam with curiosity.

“Interesting. And where, may I ask, can one experience this difference?”

Noid contemplates his next words like a chess player deciding whether he should sacrifice his bishop to his opponent.

“I’d tell you,” he says carefully, “but I have to ask my tribe first.”

Martin nods. “Of course. I am an outsider, after all. A suspected spy, at that. Who knows what sort of trouble I will bring to your little commune?”

Noid narrows his eyes, but when he sees no mockery in Martin’s face. 

“Is that blonde boy part of your tribe?” Martin asks. 

"Yes."

“Ah," the smoker sighs. "Then I already have one vote against me. I’ve given him quite a fright.”

“He’ll be fine. I’ll clear things up. Tell him you’re just a struggling Impressionist artist who likes staring at the ocean.”

Martin winces. “No offense, cher. But I’d prefer being a spy than being _that_.”

“Why?” Noid frowns. “There is nothing wrong with being an artist. Or with struggling. Both are hardcore.”

This time, it’s Martin’s turn to frown. “Hardcore?” 

Noid taps his chest. “Solid. True.” He pulls on his cigarette. “Mega cool.”

Martin still doesn’t look convinced, so Noid sighs and points at the ocean. “The surface of the sea is soft-core,” he says. “It is fickle. Calm one moment, stormy in the next. But the deep sea is hardcore.”

“Because it doesn’t change?” Martin asks.

“Because it is honest,” Noid corrects him. “It is not a safe place. But it never pretends to be otherwise.”

Understanding slowly dawns in Martin's eyes. “I see. Well, in that case. I don’t mind being introduced as a struggling Impressionist artist after all.”

  
  
“Good. Only those who are true to themselves can gain access to Elysium,” Noid declares. “Our sick anodic beats will drive away everything that is false-core.”

Martin looks like he's about to ask another question. But then he spots something behind Noid and goes very, very still.

Frowning, Noid turns around just in time to see a black LUM Fevre ‘49 glide over the waterbridge. He has no idea what a car like that is doing here in Martinaise. But judging from those heavy, dark sines, it can't be up to anything good. 

Suddenly, Martin drops his cigarette to the ground and squashes it beneath his shoe. “Time for my next appointment." His smile is wry and tinged with sadness. "Thank you for the chat, cher.”

He walks past Noid, who breathes in the mingled scents of tobacco and sandalwood and says...

“Wait."

Martin looks back. 

They stare at each other for a beat. 

Then, Noid surrenders his bishop.

“The old church. We’re there everyday. In case...you know,” he falters, suddenly flustered. “You get bored of the ocean.”

The man whose name is not Martin considers this for a moment. 

Then, he smiles. 

“Thank you, Noid,” His eyes are as warm as honey. “I’ll make sure to drop by.”

Noid watches him walk away. Then, when he can no longer see the speck of fuschia drifting across the waterlock, his spinal cord pings.

SINES SYNCED. 

Noid smiles.

 _Hardcore_. 

He stands up, flicks away his cigarette, and walks back to the church to tell his crew about their visitor.

* * *

When the smoker gets to his apartment, his friend is already there.

“Sorry I’m late."" He closes the door behind him. “Water?”

“Hm? Ah, yes. That would be good.” His friend sits down on the side of the bed as the smoker walks into the kitchen and fills up two glasses with tap water. “I see that you were able to make a new friend.”

The smoker stiffens. 

“He’s a child.” He closes the tap. “Eccentric, but harmless.”

His friend nods. A thoughtful expression settles on his face. 

“You’ll be seeing him again, I suppose? It’s always beneficial to make new friends.”

_Beneficial_ , the smoker thinks. _Just like our relationship._

“We’ll see.” He sets the glasses on the nightstand. “I think I’ll take a shower first. Care to join me?”

As he pads towards the bathroom, the smoker slips off his shirt and tries to remember what that child told him...

“ _Our sick anodic beats will drive away everything that is false-core_.”

_False-core_ , he thinks. _That is what I am._

He decides, then and there, that he will go to church next Sunday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was a joy to write! Thank you to the Disco Elysium Secret Santa organizers, [Darelz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darelz) and [Lepak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lepak/works), and also to my giftee, [SundayLion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SundayLion/works) for opening my eyes to the wonders of Noid & Smoker & the nightclub kids. 
> 
> Shout-out to [Lepak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lepak/works) for beta-reading! Make sure to check out her work!


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